Welcome to Heartbreak
by oneofyourfrenchgirls
Summary: The King of Hell has everything but someone to share it with. He only wants the best, and the best happens to be the very pretty Winchester brother. Slash: Crowley/Dean, minor Cas/Dean. Protective!Sam.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Supernatural or its characters. I am not making any profit out of writing this. This applies to all chapters.

**Spoilers: **set in season 7, somewhere. Sam never had any hallucinations when the wall in his mind broke down. Crowley and Castiel did work together, but Cas is alive and still an angel. Dick Roman and his buddies are still around.

**Pairings:** Crowley/Dean. Mentions of Cas/Dean. (Bottom!Dean all the way.)

**Warnings:** Slash (graphic sex scenes, dub-con). Alcohol, foul language and violence (also abuse). Not proof-read yet.

**Summary: **The King of Hell has everything. Everything but someone to share it with. Crowley only wants the best, so of course the only one suitable as his partner is the bright and pretty Righteous Man.

* * *

**Welcome to Heartbreak**

**Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls**

**Part I: Prologue**

* * *

Crowley has always enjoyed the finest things in life. If it isn't the best, if it isn't supreme, then it isn't worth any kind of work. He isn't the type to settle for second best or simple things; no, he rather works a little harder, a little longer, to get exactly what it is that he wants. This applies to anything and everything - clothing, drinks and food, all those material things that humans are so fond of, but he also puts a distinct level of competense on his subordinates and other beings that he surrounds himself with.

His dogs, for example, are a fine breed of Hellhounds. Big and muscular in ways that mortal animals are not, blood bubbling between their giant teeth and their short fur always glistening beautifully. Crowley can't see the beauty in other demons' dogs, but his own canines are utterly adorable killing machines. He should get some kind of prize, he thinks, a trophy for being such a capable dog breeder.

Of course, he doesn't need medals or trophies no more. He is the king of Hell nowadays, and the fear and respect that oozes through his subordinates' pores is a good enough testament of his greatness.

Crowley is also stubborn, but has always been labelled as fair. As his previous position as king of the crossroads, it was in the job description, and it's a trait that has followed him ever since he started dealing. He can no longer see the fun in getting his way without a little fight. The red tape isn't a hinder, it's a possibility. He is a fine, fine business man and it had been half the fun to find his way through the bureaucracy.

Nowadays, Crowley actually has the time to sit back and relax now and then.

Hell is remodelled and slowly rebuilt into something much more creative. It's improving, growing stronger and cleaner. Cleaner, because as stated earlier, Crowley likes the finest things in life, and he figures that his work space should reflect that as well. The demons are being held in tighter leashes - they are worse than his dogs: always running around, drooling and biting, ruining things. He doesn't mind, because dogs he can handle: demons are beasts, and he shall treat them as such.

King of Hell is currently sitting in his newest establishment - an old, isolated manor on Earth - and enjoying a thumb of scotch and a cigar. It's Cuban, a smelly thing that will certainly stick to the fabric of the plush sofa group. He doesn't mind the smoke, but he opens the wide windows with a wave of his hand, because he's certain that his guest probably won't find the sweet scent pleasurable.

The small flames of the lit candles wavers in the evening breeze and the fireplace crackles as more oxygen enters the room. The dim light and comfortable armchair would probably have made him sleepy, had he been human, but as it is, Crowley is wide awake and eagerly anticipating what is to come. The weather outside is appropriate - sun settling far, far away and the sky an orange pink - for what is to come, and he hopes that the romantic touch to the room will be noticed.

The sheepskin thrown in front of the fireplace took him days to find. The ones on this continent were too small, so he had been forced to travel quite a bit to find one this large and soft. Pillar candles are spread throughout the room in little groups, casting a lovely warm atmosphere that Crowley didn't think he would actually manage to create.

Of course, it is ruined that very moment by two of his private goons. They don't seem like much topside, but down below they are more than useful. He thinks that they need more practice, so they aren't the actual ones to bid this very business. Instead, they only stumble into the room in their pretty meatsuits, unused to concrete limbs, to inform him about a certain someone's presence.

A certain someone that is going to be Crowley's biggest pride.

The King of Hell needs a lover.

Someone to show off, to spoil and to be proud of. He can hear the very special being - a human - throwing a fit downstairs, obviously not aware of the position that Crowley is going to offer him. A position that will only fall to the very best: the prettiest, the brightest, the most wanted. A position of power and control, a queen of sorts, because 'consort' isn't a proper term for someone as high maintance as the piece of meat being dragged and pulled up the stairs this very minute.

Crowley waves the two newbies away, puts out his cigar in the marble ashtray, and waits as patiently as he can (because he has patience, the former king of crossroads, always waiting ten years for deals to come due).

The doors are practically swung open, three of his best demons dragging in a kicking and screaming Dean Winchester.

The Righteous Man himself, digging his heels into the hardwood floor and trashing much like a trapped rabbit, He looks good, if a little tired and angry, eyes wide and mouth twisted into a furious scowl. Nevertheless, this human is perfect for the roll. He is the best of the best, top notch and absolutely worth the fight. Crowley can already feel the pride that is going to overwhelm him once he shows his subordinates - his kingdom - their new queen. Dean Winchester, pretty as can be, Hell's most wanted and Alistair's prodigy.

_What a catch_, Crowley finds himself thinking. He can't help but raise his glass in a silent salut when Dean finally spots him, jaw going slack in surprise.

"_You_," he growls, but doesn't seem to be capable of forming a coherent sentence beyond that.

"Yes, _me_. Boys, leave us." Crowley gestures towards the door with his free hand, taking a sip of the auburn liquor without feeling the burn in his chest. A physical warmth spreads through him, warming his vessel in the outmost pleasurable way. "I've been looking for you for quite some time," he confesses when Dean is finally on his two feet and searching the room for weapons.

"Oh yeah? Why's that, you asshole?"

"I have a preposition to make. A deal, if you may." He can see Dean's nose crinkle slightly at the word, but the human is too busy weighing the fire poker in his hand to voice his dismay. Instead, Crowley continues: "It won't require your soul. Not Sam's. It doesn't require any souls, actually."

"Then what is it, fucker? C'mon, out with it. Don't have all day." Dean swings the fire poker at him, but Crowley snaps his fingers and the iron crumbles in the air before it can collide with his head. "I don't wanna make any deals with you. Or anyone else."

"Hm, yes, I kind of figured," Crowley admits slowly and takes another sip. He makes a vague gesture to the small table where he keeps his alcohol, but Dean only glares at him. "See, as King of Hell, I'm given all sorts of privileges and powers, but I guess you already understand that." Crowley certainly hopes so, but he knows that the boy is a little slow. "And you might have figured out that I want my property to be of the highest quality."

"I kinda figured when you threw that hissy fit about your tailor," Dean mutters and tries to open the doors. They don't even budge, and the Winchester gives up after a few more tries. He turns back to Crowley, green eyes turning a warm moss-colour in the light of the fire.

"I have everything now," he carries on when Dean stares at him. "Everything but one little thing."

"A soul?"

Crowley doesn't really appreciate being mocked, but he lets it slide for now. "No, you little moron. Someone to share it with. My everything."

Dean's eyes widens comically and he leans against the doors with a thump. "Are you serious? 'Cause if you are, I don't understand what I'm doin' here. I'm sure as hell not gonna help you find some kind of demon-wife just 'cause you're feelin' a little lonely. Dude."

"I'm very serious, but I agree that asking you for help in finding a bride would be ridiculous. Your taste in women and men is not what I have in mind." Crowley schools his facial expressions, waiting for Dean to catch on. Of course, that doesn't happen, and he's forced to add: "No, Dean, I do not need your help to find myself a partner. I already have someone in mind."

"Good for you. Don't bother sending me any wedding invitations 'cause I'm not gonna show up."

"Oh, Lord, it's like talking to a brick wall. A _stupid_ brick wall."

Crowley gets up, making his way to the doors. Dean unconsciously presses his back further into the white-painted wood in a pathetic attempt to escape. Standing as close as possible, Crowley looks straight into green, weary eyes and hopes that his own aren't black. Crowley is a few centimetres shorter, barely an inch, but he's broader and his vessel is actually rather well-kept. Not athletic, perhaps, but far from the shame shape as Bobby Singer.

"You don't seem to mind the angel being this close," Crowley murmurs, their hot breaths mingling in the air between them. "He might be as bright and fair as you are, Dean, but we both know you crave something darker."

Dean swallows, his throat working awkwardly under Crowley's gaze. They both know that it's true - even Castiel, the fluffy little angel, must confess to this. This attraction that Dean has to anything dark and sullied (like Sam, but no one dares to say such a thing, not even the King of Hell). Maybe the need Dean has for dirty and naughty things came after his time with Alistair, but Crowley knows that the potential has always been there, lurking.

Even though his soul is the brightest, the cleanest, Dean's mind is a nasty place to be.

It makes him the perfect candidate for the place as Queen of Hell - because, really, Dean is pretty enough for the title. Crowley finds himself smirking, his upper lip curling above his row of teeth a little manically. He's been waiting for this a long time now, ever since he decided to hand over that God-awful gun. It has been such a load of trouble to find the Winchester boys that he had been almost confused this morning, when rumours about them being just a few states over were truthful.

"Back off," Dean whispers, but he doesn't even try to fight.

Crowley takes it as the invitation it is, leaning in and capturing those sinuous lips with his teeth. He bites, a little too hard perhaps, and the kiss is messy when blood runs freely between their mouths. Warm and wet, tongues daring to sneak out once Crowley stops nibbling. It's a good kiss, spit and blood dribbling down their chins and sticking to their teeth. It seems that Dean understands, at least in the back of his mind, because he pulls back after less than a minute.

He looks to the side, his sharp profile just as handsome as from the front. Crowley steps back, wondering what the human is thinking right now. Probably screaming in that head of his, surely not noticing the effort Crowley put into this room. The sheepskin on the floor, the soft sofa and all the pillar candles; unnoticed and forgotten, because humans are still stupid and young.

"Think about it for me," Crowley murmurs, his lips moving against the shell of Dean's ear, smearing blood over the pale skin. He can't help the breathy chuckle that escapes him, but seeing that shade of red on the Righteous Man is even more glorious than Alistair described. "You can still hunt, with your brother. You want Roman gone, I want Roman gone."

"Then what is it you want?" Dean asks, voice rough and tired, the way Dean seems to be these days.

"To put it in crude ways that you'll understand: I want your ass. In my bed, sometimes by my side. You do make a lovely company on your good days." Crowley must admit to find Dean's objection to anything supernatural amusing, with his insults and holier-than-thou attitude, as long as it isn't turned on him.

"Such a romantic, Crowley," Dean rasps. Crowley barely manages to avoid rolling his eyes, because, yes, he is quite the romantic. Only, the Winchester boy would probably not know romance if it hit him in the arse. "But I don't think thinkin' about it will change my answer."

"Which is...?"

"No. Fuck no, actually. You got a stroke or something? 'Cause last time I checked you were the God damn demon that rules hell." Dean finally begins to struggle, pushing against the unyielding demon. Crowley does roll his eyes this time, stepping back and unlocking the doors with a snap of his fingers.

"Consider it, Winchester," he advices. "You never know when you'll need an ally from below. I can prove to be quite useful, and belonging to me would give you exclusive privileges that one of your kind can only dream of. I'll make sure to inform Sam about this - he might be able to see reason."

"You touch my brother and you're dead. Got it? I'll fuckin' kill you with my bare hands," Dean promises. "Keep quiet about this."

Crowley shrugs, the suit jacket falling perfectly over his shoulders. This is actually going a lot better than he expected it to, because Dean has actually been listening to what he had to say. That alone is a step in the right direction, so he decides to push a little further: "I won't tell Sam, if..."

Dean is silent for a while, thinking of a proper reply to the deal Crowley is offering. Finally, he says, "I'll think about it, if you don't tell Sam. You even think of mentioning it near my brother and the deal's off."

"You're getting better at this deal-making," Crowley says with a smirk. He moves over to the small table, pouring himself another glass of scotch. He then points to the doors with the bottle. "You're free to go. One of the morons downstairs will show you the way back to Sammy."

The King of Hell watches the Righteous Man walk down the hall with angry strides, doors swinging, and he feels victorious.

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**To Be ****Continued**

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**A/N: **Please let me know what you thought and if you would like to see more of this!


	2. Dirty Old Man

**A/N: **I hope that you'll enjoy this chapter of WtH and I'm still working on the third chapter of _Titanium_. I'm also going back to edit its previous chapters, so keep an eye open for changes :) **ALSO:** I wrote in the spoilers-warning that Cas and Crowley had been the ones to open purgatory, when I meant _Raphael _and Crowley.

* * *

**Welcome to Heartbreak**

**Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls**

**Part 2: Dirty Old Man**

* * *

Castiel likes to watch.

After millennia of observing, it comes naturally. A skilful warrior needs to know what he's facing, and he watches for weakness, one weak spot that will surely bring his enemy down. Castiel is old, but inexperienced with the human beings on Earth. He doesn't really understand the mental aspects of being human - he can understand the physical urges: sex, food, sleep and hygiene. He does understand that, because he was human for just a little while before his latest death.

Castiel watches his favourite human; sees how Dean drinks and lies with curvy women and brawly men, how he only eats when Sam is watching. Castiel sees all this and knows that something is wrong. He can't make out what, exactly, because he long since stopped invading Dean's dreams and thoughts. He hasn't done such a thing ever since Dean yelled at him for mind-raping him. It's an awful term that Castiel doesn't want to hear again.

"What?" Dean grumbles as they drive back towards their motel. He looks tired - Sam is already asleep by his side, snoring and drooling - and the car smells of burnt hair and ashes. They both know that this is going to be a long night, a night of staring at the TV and chugging liquor, as it has been for about a week now.

"Will you still not tell me where you went last weekend?" (Weekend is a rather new word for Castiel. In Heaven, words are more abstract than on Earth, and he likes to use his newly learnt words frequently.)

"Dude, I told you. I went for a ride."

Castiel watches a lot, and he knows that he saw the Impala outside the park where they were camping last week. He knows that Dean is lying, because he listens as well and he can tell which tone Dean uses when he's lying these days. His voice gets a little higher, a little drained as if he knows that he's going to be found out soon enough. Castiel doesn't call him on it, not tonight.

When they get back to the motel, Dean gives Sam a wake-up shove and heads inside without another word. Castiel remains in the backseat until Sam wakes up properly, looking in the rear view mirror and offering a goodnight wave.

"If you don't mind, may I spend the night?"

Sam looks surprised, but he only clears his throat and nods. "Sure, Cas. I can, uh, ask for a cot."

"No need," Castiel answers before Sam can head down to the reception desk. They get inside the room and finds that Dean has already begun his private party, not even bothering with a glass.

"No shower tonight?" Sam asks Dean, but his older brother merely grunts, and Castiel knows that Dean is running on fumes. Prioritising has never been the human kind's strongest skill, but Dean takes this to a new level. He rather hunts and has sex than eat and shower; he spares his energy in the wrong places just so that he can get up in the morning.

Castiel sits down by the wriggly table in the kitchenette, pretends to eat a box of left-over Chinese from this afternoon, fumbling with the chop sticks in the way that makes Dean snort. ('You can smite people by snapping your fingers, but you can't eat with a couple o' sticks', to which Castiel had just left the room so that he didn't smite _Dean_.)

He doesn't watch Sam go to bed, but he can tell when the youngest Winchester falls asleep. A heavy slumber after a day's of honest work, but Dean remains restless and antsy on his side of the room. The TV isn't even on, it's just Dean drinking and tapping his fingers on his thigh in an inaudible rhythm. His eyes look red even from here, and Castiel gets up to take care of his charge.

This isn't the first time that Castiel chooses to help Dean fall asleep, and it will probably not be the last, but it calls for extreme situations for Castiel to do so. He knows how it upsets Dean, he understands - on a theoretic level - that Dean likes his control, likes to control every single cell of his body.

"Sleep, Dean," he whispers and presses his fingers to Dean's cheek. He can feel bone under his fingertips, hard but easily broken, and he can't resist the urge to caress over it with his thumb. These human urges - the impulses, the need to touch - hasn't gone away, probably never will, because it's still pleasant. Even if he can now heal and smite again, has the powers of a warrior once again, the touch of another being is pleasant and welcome.

Castiel takes the bottle and hides it under the bed; helps Dean pull off his damp and muddy boots. He sits on the side of the bed and watches. Time goes by and it feels slow, the way it only ever does below Heaven, above Hell, but he doesn't mind. There isn't enough time in the world for Castiel to watch Dean Winchester, asleep or not.

* * *

Sam finds them a hunt just a few towns over, tells Castiel eagerly to just zap them there over day and then they can return to this little hole. Dean doesn't look all too happy about being zapped, muttering about his bowel movements, and Castiel hesitates. Sam rolls his eyes, shuts his laptop shut and heads out to the car.

Dean and Castiel stare at each other, none really sure what Sam meant by walking out on them like that, and Dean startles when the motel door is opened again. The younger Winchester scowls, makes his face contort into an ugly grimace, and packs his stuff together.

"Dean, come _on_. If we leave now, we'll be there by dinner."

"Man, can't we eat first?" Dean complains, probably because the burgers at the diner across the street are small enough to fit in his palm. Castiel suspects that Sam knows this too, because his scowl deepens into what Dean likes to call a 'bitch face'.

"_Fine_. Just. Ugh. Just pack your things together so we can go immediately afterwards."

"Yeah, yeah."

Castiel helps by throwing the take-out food away, checking under the beds and in the bathroom for things that shouldn't be left behind. When he's done, he follows Dean across the road while Sam checks out. The sun is high in the sky and the outdoor seating is full of people having lunch. Castiel thinks he can hear seagulls, but it must be his imagination. There isn't any water beyond the public pool down the Main Road.

"Hello, boys," the waitress greets them as soon as they step inside. "Mind sitting inside? I don't think we've got much room left out there."

"No problem," Dean assures her with a grin. Castiel has watched Dean long enough to know that no matter how old, how ugly or how young the waitresses are, they are always hit on. It might be some kind of policy that Dean has adapted: always flirt with the waitress. Maybe it's because she is the one to bring the food, but Castiel doesn't think that's the case. Dean never hits on waiters, even though his bisexuality isn't hidden.

Sam catches up with them only a minute later, sliding into the booth and immediately shrugging off his flannel shirt. Castiel receives a pointed look from the younger brother, and knows what it means. He shrugs out of his coat and suit jacket, inspects his clothing to make sure that he doesn't have the same kind of perspiration spots in his armpits as Sam does.

"What can I get you boys?" the waitress asks, returning with a small notepad.

Her hair is fiery red and her eyes are bright green, almost grey, and Castiel compares her hair to the vessel of his sister. Anael's hair had had the same colour, but this woman has her long lengths put in a braid that almost reaches the small of her back. He compares her eyes to Dean's. Castiel dares a glance in the man's way, deciding already then that he prefers the dark green that only Dean has to the waitress' watery green.

"And you, darling?" she looks straight at him, and Castiel sends the brothers a look.

Dean steps in, always ready to help out, grin wide, "He'll have the pancakes."

"Strawberries and cream or syrup?"

"Strawberries," Sam butts in before Dean can tell her to bring both, even though Castiel has tried syrup and did most certainly not like it. The sugary taste and the way it stuck to his teeth made an uncomfortable combo that he doesn't want to experience again.

Once she's gone, leaving their coffee cups filled to the brim, Sam hands Dean the newspaper in which he had found their next hunt. "I'd say werewolf, but the lunar cycle is all wrong. I can't think of any other thing that'd leave wolf-like bite marks in a place like this."

Sam is right - it looks like a werewolf, even to Castiel, because no normal canine would be able to make its way inside of a five-star hotel, in the middle of a busy city. Of course, as Sam pointed out, the lunar cycle is wrong.

"The heart?" Dean asks, eyes searching the article but not reading.

"It doesn't say."

Dean looks pale and thin all of a sudden, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he brings his coffee cup up to his mouth. He gulps it down, not caring about the way it obviously burns in his throat. Sam stares, jaw slack, and Castiel has to look away.

* * *

They arrive in the small city in the late evening, parking in a parking house near the hotel where the man was slaughtered. Castiel steals a glance towards the brothers as they change into expensive rental suits, expertly hopping into their pants and buttoning their shirts behind the car. He can't help but think that this is something they've done many times before - changing clothes behind cars in public places, not bothered by the thought of anyone seeing their naked skin, not bothered by each other.

Castiel thinks that it might be impossible for the brothers to feel uncomfortable in each others' presence.

"You ready?" Dean asks when they're dressed, as if they had been waiting for the angel for quite some time.

"Yes," Castiel replies dryly. He thinks that he should go back to Heaven, make sure everything is in order still, and because he doesn't actually have a role in this scheme. It's just going to be Sam and Dean this time, investigating and bringing their gathered facts to him afterwards.

"Okay, so. See yah." Dean gives Sam a small look before they part ways, Castiel following Sam for once.

Sam only gives an awkward wave before Castiel zaps them to the downtown hospital. They head to the morgue immediately, using the elevator to get downstairs, Sam only speaking up once the metal doors have slid closed.

"So, you're Special Agent DiNozzo," Sam says, voice tight. He obviously disapproves of their fake names. "Just flash the badge when I do and let me do the talking. No truth-telling or explaining."

Apparently, Dean has told Sam about Castiel's lousy job as FBI agent. To his defence, he had still been new to human interaction back then. He knows better than to explain the real situation and his real beliefs, knows that you have to lie to get what you want. He knows that now.

Luckily for them, the doctor that went through their victim's autopsy is not a big fan of TV, and their identities remain undiscovered. They are given time with the corpse after Castiel presses two fingers to the man's greasy forehead, just because the man _just wouldn't leave_, letting him fall into unconsciousness right there on the cold floor. He hopes that the man will wake up in an hour or so, because the air is chilly and humans fall into sickness easily.

"Well, it could be a werewolf," Sam mutters as he pokes around on the stiff body. "Most of the heart is gone, and these bite marks..."

Castiel leans closer, not bothering with the latex gloves that Sam has forced onto his large hands, inspecting the wounds closer. Indeed, it looks like canine bites and scratches, long lines of open skin over the man's chest and big pieces of flesh gone from his thighs and abdomen. It could be a regular wolf, maybe a lion or a gigantic hound, but Castiel suspects that this isn't the case.

No, Castiel knows what killed this man.

"What's your guess?" Sam asks, fighting to get the too-small plastic gloves off of his hands.

"Hellhounds."

* * *

They check into the five-star hotel in which their victim was murdered, using another set of ID's but leaving their rental suits on. Castiel stays in the background as Sam talks his way into getting the room next to their vic's. Castiel hears him speak about superstition and favourite rooms, and the young man behind the reception desk only nods and smiles.

They take another elevator, this time upwards, and Castiel finds that he doesn't like the sensation. It's too different from flying, so contained and slow, very limited in its ways. Sam doesn't seem to mind their snail-pace, just discreetly checks himself in the mirror-clad walls and fixes his too-long hair. Personally, Castiel thinks nothing of the younger Winchester's hair, not beyond the practical point, and he knows that he's just echoing Dean's words.

"This is us," Sam says when they reach the right door, but he doesn't open it. Instead, they lean against the wall and waits.

One minute, two minutes, and Castiel gets just as restless as Sam. Here on Earth, time passes too slow and too fast at once, because time is limited here and it flows in such an unnatural way compared to Heaven and Hell. Ten minutes later, they're both walking down the hall to find the room of their victim's.

It isn't hard to find, being just down the corridor and a 'do not disturb'-sign hangs on the door handle. Castiel unlocks it with a swipe of his hand, making the tiny lamp flash green on the lock. Castiel can't figure out how Dean got inside here, but the man is full of surprises that go beyond even angels.

Sam has his gun out when they sneak inside, hearing no sound beyond their own footsteps as the door closes behind them. Castiel notes that this is a much bigger room - a nicer room - than what the Winchesters usually bothers with. The floor isn't covered by a mat, just bright wood under their shoes; and there is no obvious theme, just light greys and warm beige. There's an actual drawing on the wall in the living room, hanging right above a crinkling fireplace.

They aren't alone, and Sam is only milliseconds away from shooting when they see who it is. Castiel closes his hand around Sam's arm, forcing it down and preventing any gunshots. They can't attract any attention from the staff or other hotel guests - not if they want to handle this on their own.

Dean is sitting in a chair, not bound by ropes or cuffs, but by the mind of one of the demons in the room. His chest is heaving, maybe after yelling and struggling, and Castiel feels a surge of anger towards the disgusting creature holding him there. Of course, the demons aren't just any demons. They are on, what Dean would call, the A-list.

Crowley's favourite pets.

A sound comes from the bathroom, and the King of Hell himself steps out with a smug look on his face. He looks honestly surprised to see them there, walking up behind Dean and leaning on the back of the chair. Dean looks to the side, stares stubbornly through the window. Castiel is about to open his mouth, demand to know what is going on here, but Sam beats him to it.

"Let him go," he spits out, fishing out his flask of holy water. "What have you done to him? Let him go!"

"Oh, shut up," Crowley says with a tired sigh. "We've just been talking, haven't we?"

Dean doesn't answer, his fingers clutching to the armrests so harshly that his knuckles are turning white. Castiel wants to know what has been said between the two - what possibly could be said - but he would rather hear it from Dean, once they've gotten him out of his restraints and the demon's clutches.

"Really," Crowley promises. He puts his hands in the air, an act to show his innocence, but those hands have sinned one too many times to be of any reassurance. "If Dean wishes to tell you, he will. If he doesn't, then, well. That's your problem."

"Let him go," Sam repeats darkly. Castiel removes his hands from the pockets of his trench coat, ready to attack any minute now. These demons may be good warriors, but their motives are weak compared to Castiel's.

"Yes, let him go," Crowley agrees impatiently.

Dean almost falls out of the chair when he's let go, hurrying over to Sam's side and gasping for air as though his oxygen supply had been affected as well. Crowley smirks, gives Dean a pointed look - the kind of look that an angel of the Lord will never understand - before disappearing into thin air. His subordinates remain a second longer before following, leaving a stench of sulphur behind.

"You okay?" Sam asks his brother, running his hands all over Dean's unharmed body. He's shoved away almost immediately, but he doesn't seem hurt by it. Instead, he exhales in relief and says, "What the fuck, Dean?"

"Tell me 'bout it," Dean agrees.

* * *

When they get to their appointed room, Castiel lies.

He claims that he is going to Heaven for the night, try to find out what Crowley is doing topside, but he remains in the hotel room, invisible. He suspects that Dean can feel him, somewhat, maybe feels that Castiel is still close by, but he doesn't say anything aloud.

He watches the brothers as they go through their usual routines, not once speaking about Crowley or anything job-related. Instead, they draw perfect salt lines by the windows and the door, takes long showers under the generous spray of hot water and Dean creeps under the covers while Sam is eating his third bag of peanuts.

There is only one bed, a wide and long double, but Castiel knows that neither brother cares. They have shared smaller beds, shared tighter areas with fewer clothes and still stay unaffected.

When Sam slips in under the comforter, the bed looks – for once – proportional to his gigantic body. Castiel leans closer, because he can tell that Sam is mentally preparing himself in order to talk with his brother.

"Do you remember when I came back?" Sam asks, tentatively, voice small and shoulders stiff. Castiel thinks about fleeing, just this once, because he can't stand to see the look on Dean's face at Sam's words.

"What about it?" Dean grinds out.

"We promised each other not to keep any more secrets. We, uh, we said that we'd talk. More. Talk more." Sam stumbles over his words nervously, clearly afraid to scare his sibling away but also determined to let it out. They need this, they do, but Castiel can almost feel the burn in Dean's chest.

"It's not lethal," Dean mumbles, "he's just trying to talk me into, uh, a deal."

Castiel can't imagine what Crowley would want from Dean. The only reason he can think of is Crowley wanting the Righteous Man back on his rack, maybe holding a knife and cutting up beautiful souls. Castiel knows many angels that would like Dean to come up to Heaven, bless them with the shine of his soul, but demons can't appreciate this the same way. They can't.

"He tied you to a chair and, what, talked to you?" Sam's voice goes up slightly at the end of the question, a clear sign that he doesn't believe that one second. "Then, uh. What kind of deal are we talking here?"

"No souls," Dean mutters and slides down further in the bed. He disappears down under the comforter, but Sam only tugs it away from his brother's face. "It doesn't matter anyway. Not gonna do anything."

"It matters," Sam insists. "What is it that he can offer us? What does he want from you, if he doesn't want your soul?"

Dean squirms, refusing to look at his brother. Castiel has to smother the inclination he feels to get to Dean's side, just sit by him and watch. He wants to sit by Sam's side as well, listen to the younger brother in the way that no one ever does, but his wish to be by Dean's side is larger than the need to understand and console.

"I thought he was messin' with me at first," Dean confesses after a moment of silence. "He came for me a week ago. Y'know, when I said I'd been for a ride, after the poltergeist."

"I knew you lied," Sam says, and there's a boyish smile on his face.

"Shut up." Dean slaps Sam's arm half-heartedly, clearly not in the mood for any kind of smugness. "Anyway, he said we could help each other out. With the leviathans."

Castiel feels a tug in his stomach at the mention of leviathans, thinking of how his brother's vessel had burst like an overfull mosquito, making it rain black and red. Raphael may not have been Castiel's favourite brother – far from it – but they were brothers, once, nonetheless, despite wrong choices.

"Yeah, the new devil isn't very fond of the new monsters. Who'da thought."

"So he wants to help us slay monsters, or...?"

"Help each other," Dean corrects.

"That's it? I, uh, I know that it's not the smartest to make deals or work with demons, but, Dean... These leviathans, we don't even know how to kill them!"

"Shut up, Sam. Just go to sleep and we'll pretend it didn't happen tomorrow morning."

"You—just – ugh. Fine. Jerk."

"Bitch."

The lights go out and the brothers shifts in the dark, trying to find restful positions. Castiel stays in the room, wondering what it is that Dean isn't telling them. Crowley isn't known for any deals 'too good to be true', because his catches are always obvious to all parties.

Castiel stays in the corner of his room until early morning, not at ease with leaving the brothers unguarded in a night such as this. When the sun comes up, painting the sky orange and red, he leaves to Heaven in search for answers.

* * *

**To Be Continued**

* * *

**A/N: **Feel free to comment and leave critisism :) (For those of you who haven't gotten replies to your reviews yet, I'm going to answer them tonight. Thank you so much!)


	3. We Come One

**A/N: **I don't know if you guys notice, but I'm trying different tones in each chapter, trying to go along with the chapter's POV. Last one was Castiel, obviously, and this one is Sam's POV (third person, still). I hope you can sense a little of their characters through the text :)

* * *

**Welcome to Heartbreak**

**Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls**

**Part 3: We Come One**

* * *

Sam Winchester wakes up to the sound of his brother throwing up.

He doesn't remember at what time in his life this became a familiar sound - the hacking and gagging, sound of liquid splashing against liquid, the harsh spitting that signals that Dean's stomach is as empty as can be - but he knows that he should do something about it. He did try talking about it once, but it didn't lead anywhere, so Sam gets up to let his actions speak for him.

He's confused for a second - he guesses that this is what it feels like to wake up somewhere that isn't home, taking a little too long to recognise furniture and the basic layout - and a couple of years ago he would think that thinking of seedy motel rooms as 'home' isn't healthy.

He manages to get to the bathroom rather quickly nevertheless, still hearing his brother empty his stomach behind the closed door. Sam is glad that it isn't locked; because he feels panicked enough that he would have tackled it open.

"Dean," he whispers, voice strained and weird, and kneels beside the toilet. He reaches out while Dean is still hurling, wrapping his long arms around his brother, pulling them away from the toilet seat. Unfortunately, his brother isn't done puking, and miscoloured liquid-vomit dribbles down Dean's chin. Under the heavy smell of bile and sweat, Sam can sense vodka. He wonders if the last time his brother ate was yesterday at lunch, eating the small burger and chugging it down with sugary coke.

"Sam," Dean grinds out, lips glistening and t-shirt ruined. His face is covered with sweat and he looks like he hasn't gotten any sleep at all. Sam breathes out a sigh of relief when his brother accepts his embrace, gripping at Sam's shirt but not-quite pulling him closer.

"It's okay," Sam promises.

He knows exactly what to do in situations like these on a theoretical level, since his brother has taken care of him like this all of their lives, but now he isn't sure that he's able to put his knowledge to use. He hates seeing Dean like this, wrecked and confused, and it feels like the world is upside-down for a minute while Sam tries to get them both on their feet.

"It's okay," he repeats, because that's what Dean usually does, and Sam knows how good that is to hear.

The bathroom is too big and too clean, making Dean look even sicklier, but Sam forces himself not to think of it. Tries to think of it as just a hunt-related wound, something that isn't caused by anything but physical aspects. He struggles with getting his mind straight as he attempts to take them across the room for a shower.

Dean pushes him away as soon as they get near the big shower, but he doesn't say anything when Sam makes it clear that he's staying in the bathroom until Dean is okay. Sam uses the toilet and washes up by the sink while Dean stands under the spray. From the corner of his eye, he can see that his older brother is slowly getting back to himself, maybe sobering up properly.

"I'm gonna call up some food," he tells Dean when the shower door slides open and steam rolls out in thick clouds. He only gets a grunt in reply, but it's good enough for him.

After calling room service, he can't help but send a brief prayer upwards as he gets dressed. Sam doesn't know how long it takes for Castiel to appear, but when he turns around to turn the TV on, the angel is right behind him.

"Fuck! Cas!" Sam can't help but putting his hand above his heart, massaging the poor muscle, and he marvels on how Dean never gets surprised whenever Castiel pops in anymore. "A little warning next time?" he adds, which is standard procedure, but Castiel has never gotten it before and Sam suspects that Hell will freeze over before the angel actually decides to warn him.

"I apologise," Castiel says, ice cold eyes darting across the room. "You are not alone."

"Uh, thank you, I guess, but-"

"No. I sense something from in there," Castiel elaborates, raising his entire arm to point at the bathroom door.

Sam has barely gotten his gun out when the bathroom door swings open and Dean all but runs out of it. He doesn't stop until he's on the other side of the bed, clutching onto his towel and gaping in the direction he came from. Sam almost drops his weapon when Crowley steps out, an air of haughtiness surrounding him when he lays his eyes on Sam and Castiel.

"Hello, boys," he says, voice thick with his accent more than usual, and he sends another smirk in Dean's way. Sam lowers his gun by now, knowing that the salt rounds will do nothing to harm Crowley. "Thought I'd stop by again."

"Why?" Sam sits on the edge of the bed, seeing his brother get into his clothes with a hurry never seen before. Castiel stands between the demon and Dean, and Sam figures that it must be bad if even the tactless angel can sense Dean's uneasiness. "What is it that you want?"

"Oh, Dean-o didn't want me to tell you," Crowley explains, "I guess you have to ask your brother."

"Shut up," Dean spits out. He's shrugging into one of Sam's hoodies, already wearing a t-shirt and a flannel shirt under it. He seems to shrink a little in the too-big size, but he looks angry as ever. He reminds Sam of a cat they once found by the side of the road, fur standing on all ends and back leg broken after being hit by a car. Dean had been the one to put it out of its misery, and Sam had been mad at him for it for a week.

"Honey, watch your tongue," Crowley reprimands, "Or I'll tell little Sammy exactly what it is I want from you."

"We have a deal!"

"Nuh-uh. We didn't seal it with a kiss. So, unless you come over here and put your pretty mouth to use, we've got no such deal."

Sam is glad that he's sitting, because the next thing he knows, Dean is striding across the room and pushing past Castiel's stiff body in order to press his lips against Crowley's. The kiss is awkward at first, Dean standing too far away and his face scrunched up in distaste, but it soon eases into something that hints towards that this isn't the first time.

Sam has seen his brother kiss countless of boys and girls over the years, but this probably takes the cake.

His normally reserved, careful brother practically throws all caution with the wind and just _goes with it_. He puts his hands on Crowley's shoulders, not minding when Crowley places his hands dangerously low on Dean's back, under the hoodie. Sam can feel that his mouth is open in surprise, but he can't get his muscles to obey and he just stares openly at what's taking place before him.

It isn't until after they break their lip-locking, Dean stepping backwards into the wall with an embarrassed look on his face, that Sam can move again. He glances to his side, finding that Castiel looks uncommonly surprised.

"As pleasant as that was," Crowley begins, "you didn't give me a chance to write a contract for our deal."

"Oh, _c'mon_, are you serious?" Dean rakes his hands through his short hair, obviously on the verge of throwing a full-scale temper tantrum. "Just. Just keep your mouth shut."

"Of course, darling... See you later, Sam," Crowley says and disappears without a sound. Sam didn't miss the look he was given, and understands (after years of living by the rule 'don't ask, don't tell', he is rather good at intercepting looks) what it means.

"I need to brush my teeth," Dean grumbles. Sam can't help but think that Dean has put his mouth in far worse places than the mouth of a demon.

As soon as Dean is back in the bathroom, however, Sam stays completely still and just listens. Once he's sure that Dean isn't going to (try to) throw up again, he gives Cas a little nod and sneaks out the corridor. He finds Crowley there, leaning against the wall with an easiness that no angel has grasped.

"Are you going to tell me?" Sam asks, hopeful and a little scared at once.

"I am. I think that if anyone can see reason here, it's you. You've worked with demons before," Crowley says and looks away, down the hall. "I figure that the angel in there is probably biased on this subject."

"Out with it."

Crowley chuckles, a low rumble that ends almost immediately after its beginning. "I don't like Dick Roman very much. He's a _moron_ and I understand that you want him to die. I can help with that. Now, in return, I would very much like your brother."

"To...? My brother to do what?"

"I'm surprised that you aren't dead already. To _fuck him into the mattress_, you twit." Crowley looks annoyed and smug at once, continues with a: "It shouldn't be a problem, no? Your brother has slept with people for a lot less, if the rumours are true."

"Hey," Sam warns testily, but is interrupted before he can continue protecting his brother's virtue.

"Think about it, Sam. I'll borrow your brother a few hours every week, maybe a night or so, and you can go on actually_ killing_ the leviathans. It's a small price to pay."

"It isn't," Sam disagrees. He doesn't think of his brother as a whore – Dean might be a little on the easy side, always has been, and he suspects that Dean might have accepted money on one or two occasions; but that doesn't mean that it's okay to have Dean bend over for the greater good. "It really isn't."

"No, I guess you're right. No, this time, he actually _wants_ it. He just needs a push in the right direction. Maybe hear from _someone_ that no one would mind." Crowley is wearing that arrogant smile again, obviously convinced that he's right. "I'll see you later, Sam. I'll even let you read the fine-print if you promise to think about it."

"Yeah, like that's gonna—" Sam pauses, mid-sentence, when he realises that Crowley is gone.

* * *

"You got a case?" Dean asks, stuffing his mouth full with the pie that room service brought up. His lips are smeared with strawberry juice, and it looks a little too much like blood, or lipstick, but Sam doesn't have the heart to tell him about it. Castiel doesn't say anything about it either, just stares in the way that makes Sam's skin crawl, but his brother doesn't even notice.

"No, uh. No, I think that we've already got our hands full."

"Look, Sam," Dean says around a mouthful of pastry and cream, "we can't kill what we can't find. I haven't heard anything 'bout Dick in weeks. Have you?"

"No, but—"

"_Plus_, we don't know how to waste 'em."

Sam almost empties his glass of orange juice on his brother, tired of being interrupted all the time. Instead, he says, quickly in fear of getting cut off again: "Dean. Crowley told me about the deal he wants to make. And I... I mean, it isn't ideal or anything, far from it, but. Maybe we can offer him something else, and he'll tell us how to kill them."

He hopes that Castiel will back him up, because he knows that Dean values the angel's opinion a lot these days. It's no longer just the Winchester brothers, but their duo has turned into a trio when no one was looking. Sam finds himself longing for a time when Dean's world circulated around Sam, but that's just his jealousy speaking.

He knows, on a basic level, that he should be glad for Dean. Dean has never had any friends until Cas, and he deserves someone to trust, other than Sam, more than anything.

"I don't think that Crowley will settle for anything less," Castiel says slowly. He's still staring at Dean when he speaks, even if his words are meant for Sam. "He became the King of Hell because he never settles for anything less."

"Aren't you a glass half-full," Dean mutters, more to himself than anyone else. Then, louder, he says, "I agree with Cas, though. D'you really want me to sell my ass to the devil, Sam?"

"No! Of course not!"

Sam gets out of his chair, not sure what to do with himself in a situation such as this. He really doesn't want his brother to 'sell his ass' for information, especially on unlimited time, but he can't help but think of Crowley's words. He can't help but see their kiss on replay before his eyes, the lack of hesitation and wariness.

It might have been because of Dean's need for Crowley to stay quiet about the deal, but Dean has gone through enough deals to know that a quick peck suffices. Sam can't also get the idea out of his head that it has happened before, the way Dean tilted his head just a little to his left side so that he would end up on the same level as Crowley. (He doesn't want to think that it's because his brother is an experienced kisser, _too experienced_.)

He knows that Dean's taste in men is a little on the obscure side – always strong in some way, mostly tall and bulky, always older – and Crowley fits the bill perfectly. He _is _power, practically reeks with so that even civilians must notice, and he's _old_. His vessel is somewhere in the fifties, Sam guesses, right about the age where Dean likes his men.

Sam considers the possibility that he's over-analysing and the fact that it's his brother he's thinking about. He should be more surprised by this than he is, but he has long since learned that life has a tendency to throw them daily curveballs, so he doesn't think too hard about it.

"I can't believe that he told you, though," Dean says thoughtfully, inspecting the piece of fruit on his fork. "Fucking asshole."

"He must have thought that Sam would be able to persuade you into the deal," Castiel muses. "At the very least play on his influence over you."

Dean's lips thin out, speaking volumes of how he doesn't appreciate being talked about as if Sam can manipulate him into anything – including demon deals. "Whatever, man, I don' wanna be his freaking – what's the word? Consort?"

"Dean Winchester; Righteous Man and the Devil's boytoy," Sam blurts out, unable to resist the temptation.

He receives a kick on his shin for his comment, pain shivering through his entire leg, but it's worth it.

* * *

When afternoon rolls around, summer sun still high on the clear sky, it isn't funny anymore.

They get into the car and drive away from the small city, but Sam doesn't know exactly where they're heading or why Castiel is still with them. Normally, Cas goes back to Heaven when they're in between hunts, only shows up to aid them now and then. With one exception of course: Dean's birthday. (Sam will always tease his brother about that, because Winchesters doesn't do birthdays, and Castiel bought his brother a t-shirt, carefully wrapped by a storage clerk.)

Dean doesn't seem to be having as amusing thoughts as Sam, his face void of any emotion save for the stubborn set of his eyebrows. Dean's right hand is on the wheel and his left one is drumming neurotically on his thigh, a nervous habit that comes out too often.

"I'm hungry," Sam says, desperately trying to break the silence. It's not so awkward when it's just them – just Sam and Dean, the hum of the engine and a little cock rock in the background – but Castiel's presence makes everything heavier. Sam doesn't know why this is, but he suspects that this is what it's like to feel like a third wheel.

"Tough," Dean answers crossly, fingers freezing on his thigh now that he's aware of himself again. He looks at Sam, and then glances in the rear view mirror before turning his attention back to the road. "There should be a town fifteen minutes ahead."

Sam nods, and that's that.

* * *

They find a bar a few blocks from the main road, and it's a busy night. All the booths are occupied, so they settle around a wriggly table in the back. Sam can tell how uncomfortable it makes his brother, how Dean looks around and estimates just how drunk and disoriented the people around him are. It's still rather early, the guests still sober enough to hold coherent conversations and throw darts properly.

Castiel's presence soothes Dean somewhat, sitting a little closer than he should, but his newfound strength crinkling off of his awkward posture. Even Sam must admit that it feels a little better to have an angel around the table, especially in a dive such as this. In just a few hours, the crowd is going to be drunk, possibly aggressive and easily provoked.

"This place is—"

"If you say that it's sinful or whatever, I'm gonna smash your face in," Dean promises and waves the waitress over. Castiel just glares, but he doesn't say anything else, even as Dean order food for him as well.

Sam makes a face when their food arrives, greasy burgers and curly fries, but Dean actually eats it, and Castiel doesn't even bother protesting with his usual 'I do not need _food_', just grabs his burger in the same way Dean does and takes a large bite. Sam follows their example, taking a bite and trying not to think of the almost sour taste of ketchup and the sogginess of the bread.

Even with the sorl and country music in the background, the small table feels oddly awkward and tense, much like in the car. Dean is pretending not to notice, a skill he's been honing since Sam and their dad started fighting regularly, and Castiel eats his burger with dedication, avoiding anyone's eyes.

"So... Crowley, huh." Sam wants to kick himself once the words escape his mouth, feels his stomach tug at the bewildered look on his brother's face. Castiel grimaces around a mouthful of fries, clearly thinking about kicking Sam as well.

"This is one sucky day," Dean says with a sigh.

"Why you, though?" Sam can't help but ask, having pondered this since hearing about the deal this morning. It feels like ages ago, like eons have passed since he found out that the new Devil wants his brother in his bed, used like a whore in exchange for information about the new enemy.

Dean downs the rest of his beer with practiced ease, but his throat sounds dry, "I'd like to think it's my great personality, but I'm gonna go ahead and guess that it's not."

"The most logical guess would be Dean's soul," Castiel speaks up. He doesn't drink from the beer in front of him, but he picks on the label. It's a trait that he's picked up from Sam himself, and it feels strange watching someone else copy him. "It shines brighter than anyone else's I've ever seen."

Dean puts down his beer bottle and gives a small burp of surprise, avoiding looking at the angel.

"Then the physical aspects," Castiel continues. "Dean is physically attractive, and is still Hell's most wanted. I don't think that the Devil's motives are greater than those, necessarily. My personal guess is that Dean is pretty enough and a big tease to both Heaven and Hell."

"Gee, thanks. You sure know how to flatter a girl."

"There are no girls around here, Dean," Castiel says with a confused frown. He looks around their table, almost fervently as if panicked he has somehow lost his ability to scan the area.

"He means himself," Sam explains, and earns a hard glare for it. "So, Crowley wants to mess with angels and demons, and Dean is, uh, pretty and shiny."

"Yes," Castiel responds, wiping his fingers on a flimsy napkin. "Dean is the obvious choice for causing a riot with both angels and demons."

Dean, apparently not at ease with being talked about as if not present, speaks up, "So, what do we do now?"

"It would be wise to go to a safe place, for the moment being," Castiel says, making it sound more like an order than a recommendation. "Somewhere we can keep Hellhounds and demons out of, should Crowley decide to force you."

Sam feels another tug in his stomach, low and painful, at the thought of his brother being forced back downstairs. Flashes of his brother being ripped to shreds flickers in his mind. Even if Crowley seems civil and human above ground, he is still a demon and not above torture of any kind. Sam can practically hear his brother's helpless screams, can practically see Crowley holding him down and just _taking_.

"Bobby's," he says, a little too loudly in his panicked state, "We'll go to Bobby's."

* * *

**To Be Continued**

* * *

**A/N: **Please leave a review with your thoughts :) If I haven't responded to your review for last chapter/another story; I'm going to do so before Monday. Thank you for reading!


	4. Devotion

**A/N: **I just wanted to make clear that Sam's time in the cage was practically non-existent. Raphael was much faster getting him outta there than Cas was in canon. So **no Lucy-hallucinations** or scars for Sam in this fic. ('Cause my heart can't deal with a broken Sammy!)

Also, this is a bit short (Bobby's POV), but I think we all want things to progress :) Please review!

* * *

**Welcome to Heartbreak**

**Part IV: Devotion**

**Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls**

* * *

Bobby Singer goes to bed early after a hard day working in the sun. His neck is red and sore, unprotected from the sunrays, and his joints make cracking noises to accompany the creaking of the bed whenever he moves. It takes him a while to find a comfortable position, his mind still awake even though his body is tired and ready for a few hours of rest.

He listens to the sounds of stray animals rummaging around on the yard, slowly winding down and trying not to think too hard of the work he still has to do. His study downstairs is in need of a serious cleaning and organising; books and papers and photographs scattered in a frenzy.

Bobby is just about to turn around and reach for another pillow when he hears something. It's a distant sound, sort of a growling, and he can identify it immediately. It's the low purr of a Chevrolet Impala, almost gurgling as it makes its way down muddy gravel roads.

With a sigh and a soft curse, he gets up and puts on his sweaty clothes again, because the boys showing up at this unholy hour can only mean one thing. Bad news.

The knocking on the door isn't urgent or harsh, however, and it calms Bobby's nerves just a tad. It means that no one is bleeding. He is going to tear them both a new one if they just decided to show up for a social visit in the middle of the night, though. He's getting old - he really needs his beauty sleep if he wants to be able to get up in the morning.

"What ya idjits up to know?" he barks out as he unlocks the door and lets it swing open by itself. It makes a whining sound, but he barely notices because it's just _Castiel _standing there. "Where're the morons?"

Castiel steps aside, cold eyes flickering towards the sloppily parked car. Bobby grumbles and steps out on his porch, hoping that no one actually is bleeding, but he is only met by the sight of the two brothers clinging to each other. Nothing unusual, especially not since Dean looks like he's been on one hell of a bender.

"What's with the kid?" Bobby ask once Sam is close enough, practically dragging his drunk brother up the small set of creaking steps. Dean makes a weird sound, almost like he's choking on his own tongue, but Sam doesn't seem too worried.

"We need shelter," Castiel says seriously, avoiding Bobby's question entirely. He shrugs awkwardly, his trench coat barely moving with the movement. "We must see to the salt lines once more and I insist that you let me paint new sigils."

Bobby closes his eyes, unable to stop the small sigh that escapes his mouth. When he opens them again, Castiel has zapped himself inside and Sam is still standing in front of him, holding his brother close to his chest. There is a smudge of something on Dean's cheek, some kind of liquid, and it's covering one of Sam's sleeves.

"Yeah... He puked on me."

"Fuckin' college girl," Bobby mutters and walks back inside. Sam follows, frog marching his brother without complaint. It doesn't look like that much of a strain - Sam is built like a house and Dean is... not. Huh. "Where's his jacket?"

"He kinda puked on that one too." Sam makes a strange face, obviously aware of the weird physique his older brother has adapted. It's not skinny or even slim, but the collar bones are slightly more visible and the short sleeves of the t-shirt hangs limply around Dean's biceps. It looks wrong - strange - on someone as strong as Dean.

"He pukin' a lot?"

Sam doesn't answer, just puts Dean down on the couch and watches him snuggle into the never-washed pillow. _Great_, Bobby thinks and hears himself let out another sigh. They stand in silence for a while, hearing the quiet sound of an angel walking around upstairs.

"C'mon, boy," Bobby finally orders and gestures for Sam to follow him to the kitchen. He points at one of the wriggly chairs and offers beer from the fridge. The kid shakes his head, and Bobby isn't as surprised as he should be. Watching someone drink themselves to death (not once, but twice) does give alcohol a bad rep. "Spit it out."

Sam squirms, the way Bobby has seen the kid do before, when the boy doesn't know how to start and how to voice himself without upsetting his brother.

"Dean ain't here now, is he? Get it off ya chest."

It's all the prying that Sam needs - he is the only Winchester that actually doesn't mind talking, doesn't mind _sharing_, after all- and then the floodgates open. Sam inhales deeply, preparing for a rambling.

"Crowley's after Dean. Some kind of deal, but he doesn't want Dean's soul. Everything's so fucking weird, Bobby. You won't believe this, but... I think Crowley's got a crush on my brother. Like, he told me he wanted my brother as his consort. Y'know, I kinda understand why, 'cause it's the biggest 'fuck you' to the angels ever, and having the Righteous Man on a leash? That's gotta earn him a lot of points down under."

Sam's voice seems loud in the quiet house as he continues rambling, but Bobby isn't sure he's hearing right. Surely Sam isn't saying that the King of Hell is after them _again_? He doesn't know what to think, really, because they have come across an army of Hellhounds and demons once, what feels like eons ago, when they tried to get to Dean.

And they _failed_.

Bobby can sense the same kind of panic that is written over Sam's face, spreading inside of him. It should be funny - it _is_ kind of funny - but it's mostly just terrifying and numbing. Neither Sam nor Bobby actually knows what it's like, being trapped for decades in such a place as the Pit, but they know what it did to Dean.

"Man," Sam breathes after a moment of silence, "it feels good to talk to someone who actually listens."

Bobby shrugs, taking a swig of his beer. "So, what's Crowley offerin' us?"

Sam sighs, back to squirming. "He's gonna tell us how to kill the leviathans," the kid tells him easily, but there is something he's keeping to himself. Bobby can tell by the way Sam's lips ease into a thin line, the way John's always did when he decided not to share.

Stupid kids.

* * *

Bobby wakes up with a crick in his neck and a headache.

It gets better, sort of, after a shower and discovering that someone is making breakfast downstairs. It smells like burnt bacon and artificial lemon, meaning that the Winchesters are still in the house. Most likely, Sam hasn't slept all night out of worry, probably dusting and wiping every room clean. Bobby isn't going to complain, but he dearly hopes that the kid didn't mess with his stuff.

Bobby may feel like a train wreck when he comes downstairs after a quick shower, but Sam looks like someone just strangled his puppy right in front of him. Nevertheless, the boy is cooking breakfast - burning bacon, putting milk and cereal on the messy table, preparing too strong coffee and trying to tidy up at the same time.

"You sleep anythin'?"

"Nah," Sam replies easily, back towards Bobby as he searches through the fridge for eggs. "I cleaned your bathrooms, though."

"Did your brother get any shut-eye?" Bobby doesn't really like asking these questions, doesn't like the way it makes him feel too much like a parent, but someone has to show their concern.

Sam stays quiet, putting all his focus in opening a can of beans. Once the beans are poured in a pot to be heated up, Sam sighs and murmurs, "Cas stayed next to him all night."

Bobby leans back in the kitchen chair, hiding his smile behind his hand and glancing towards the empty living room. He can imagine it, clear as day since it's not the first time Cas stayed the night. Dean on the lumpy couch, restless even in his sleep, thin blanket over his legs and sweat running down his forehead. Cas next to him, on the most uncomfortable chair that Bobby owns, watching silently and offering some kind of angelic sleeping pills.

He knows that Sam likes Castiel. Sam appreciates all that Cas has done, all that Cas _does_, but Bobby can see how it wears on him sometimes. How Sam feels inadequate when Castiel can offer his brother things that Sam doesn't even know his brother need.

"So. What's the plan of today?" Bobby asks, and he sighs in relief when Sam lights up.

"Research."

* * *

After breakfast, Bobby feels lethargic and ready to go back to bed, but Sam has other plans. The kid goes downtown in order to raid the library, leaving his laptop in the house for Bobby to use. Of course, Bobby doesn't really know how to use the things properly - he can turn it on, off, open a tab and google something, but Sam is much more effective and experienced with the technology, so he leaves it for later.

Instead, Bobby heads upstairs. The guest bedroom is prepared now, with new sheets and dust bunnies under the bed, and that's where he finds Dean and Castiel.

The angel is sitting in the ratty armchair that is randomly placed by the door, watching out through the dirty window. Cas can probably see past all the cars and wrecks in the junkyard, past the trees and even further, but Bobby isn't curious. His eyes flies to Dean immediately when he enters the room completely, his stomach clenching and his throat convulsing.

Dean is sweating, his fingers twitching by his sides and his mouth open as he pants harshly. He isn't trashing around or making any other sounds than his loud breathing, but it feels obscene nonetheless. Bobby almost wants to head back downstairs, attempt to boot the computer up and get something done, but Castiel suddenly averts his eyes from the view.

"The fever will be over soon," the angel promises, his eyes cold when he looks up. "It is the stress."

"_Stress?_"

"Yes. I believe that Dean is carrying a lot on his mind right now," Castiel clearifies, as if Bobby might not have realised. "This isn't the first time-"

"Yeah, yeah. Save it for someone who _doesn't _know."

Castiel looks away, this time stopping at the barely-sleeping Dean. They both look in silence for a while, Bobby remembering exactly what it was like before. Before the angels and Hell - when Dean was just a regular hunter, eager to kill and scarily good at it. It looks like the last week before the hounds came from the Pit to catch their prey.

Sweating and shaking in bed, vomiting from the halllucinations and nightmares. Bobby knows that the nightly terrors were worse for Dean than the actual death. Sam knows it too, because he was the one to tell Bobby how bad it was. How his big brother would hold onto his gun too tightly, how his big brother would stare at the razor for too long while shaving himself.

"You keep your eyes on the boy?"

"Of course," Cas answers, his tone almost demeaning as he pulls his eyes from Dean. "I will _not _leave Dean's side until he is safe from Crowley."

Bobby leaves the room feeling cold and uncomfortable, his skin buzzing a little with the power from the angel's voice. Despite this, he heads downstairs to go through his own library for clues and ideas, knowing that Dean is in good care.

* * *

By the end of the day, Bobby is just a few steps away from committing homicide. Sam came home a few hours ago, tired and worn, and says, "I met Crowley."

Castiel has been compulsively checking the sigils and salt lines since then, setting up devil's traps here and there on the junk yard in case someone should be able to make their way through the protective wards that Bobby put up a year ago.

"And he didn't say anything else?" Bobby asks, knowing fully well that he is being annoying and distrustful, but Sam is clearly not telling the full truth.

"_No. _He just told me the perks. It was, like. For every downside I could come up with, he shot me down with a positive aspect." Sam makes an ugly grimace, the one he makes when he has a hard time not sharing his opinions. "Even when I said that Dean hasn't gotten over his first trip downstairs, he told me how different it is now. Barely the same place, apparently. A whole new, _clean_, system and a bigger class difference. Tighter leashes on everybody."

Bobby clears his throat, trying to find a better position in his office chair. "So... What ya make of this?"

"I've been looking into the history of consorts all day. Everything is a mess in my head and I haven't even been close to find any supernatural ones. I mean, there is no legit lore on any lovers or consorts for the devil. Lucifer has been in the cage for too long for there to be any written facts. Well, before I, uh, we freed him anyway."

There is a short silence before Bobby notices the way Sam is drumming his fingers on his thigh soundlessly, nose twtiching as if the burnt smell of their dinner is still bothering him. "Boy. What is it ain't you tellin' me?"

Sam makes another grimace, the one he actually managed to keep on his face for an entire week during a summer in the nineties, when John had dumped him here with the stomach flu. Then he opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.

"What if... uhm. Crowley told me. What it'd be like. I think it might be-"

"You better get yourself together and explain yourself this very minute, boy, or I might hafta kick your ass out," Bobby threatens, wary of what he is about to hear.

"Maybe you should talk to him yourself. I mean, maybe, at least after hearing me out, maybe you'll consider it too. Hell is completely renewed, the demons are totally Crowley's bitches, Cowley promises to take care of Dean like-"

Bobby takes off his cap and hides his face in his hands, sighing deeply. Sam's track record with demons isn't exactly spotless. "Listen to me very carefully now, Sam. We ain't selling your brother's ass to the _devil _for anythin'. Ya hear me?"

"Yes, sir, but he offered a trial week-"

"You better shut up this very second, ya idjit, or I'll throw you out with your ass first," Bobby grumbles, patience slowly wearing thin.

They go to bed without saying another word about it, Castiel watching over them all as they fall asleep.

* * *

"That might not be a good idea," Castiel says the next morning, just as Bobby is about to open the front door.

Sam is in the kitchen, puttering around and trying to make some kind of breakfast with the few fresh groceries that Bobby has at home. Personally, Bobby can't see what's wrong with eating canned bolognese first thing in the morning, but Dean had woken up half an hour ago moaning about some 'real-ass food'.

"It's not safe out there," Castiel says impatiently.

"Thanks, Captain Obvious," Bobby answers before slamming the door shut behind him. The world haven't been safe in a very, very long time. Going downtown for bacon, milk and edible bread doesn't sound all that dangerous after diverting armageddon.

He gets in his car and heads down the gravel road, stomach grumbling and face setting in a irritated frown. There might be some level of stupidity going on right here, leaving the sanctuary that is the Singer Salvage for something as silly as junk food; but if the skinny kid is hungry, you feed his skinny ass.

"Stupid kids and their stupid food," Bobby grumbles as he gets the car out on the main road.

"My thoughts exactly," an all-too familiar voice agrees.

Almost steering off the road, Bobby swears loudly and tries not to lunge out at his supernatural passenger.

"Of course, my doggies prefer to catch their own food. Less work for me."

"Get the fuck outta my car, you-"

"Is that really the way to talk to me, Robert?" Crowley prods sweetly, looking pointedly at Bobby's knees. "I'm here for some friendly conversation, that's all. Really, Singer, you wound me!"

"Oh, I'll wound you all right. Get out." Bobby eases his foot from the gas pedal, slowly coming to a halt by the side of the nearly empty road. He pulls the handbrake, giving the demon an impatient look. He really, really doesn't want to hear what the devil has to say.

"I don't understand why you are so against hearing me out," Crowley says tiredly. "You have never faced any downsides with deal making."

"I ain't stupid! Get outta my car. _Now_."

Crowley smirks, lips thin, and snaps his fingers.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


	5. Postcards from Far Away

**A/N: **I've mixed (third person) POVs in this chapter to get the story going. I hope you like it - please do review and comment! :)

* * *

**Welcome to Heartbreak**

**Part V: Postcards from Far Away**

**Written by oneofyourfrenchgirls**

* * *

Crowley is a proud man. It is one of his many sins, but he will never consider it a flaw. He doesn't like to think of himself as flawed, but he knows that there are sides of him that could – possibly – make him less desirable in the eyes of a human. Especially so to a human that has been to Hell.

Crowley knows what Dean remembers when he thinks of Hell. Crowley knows what kind of images Dean dreams of at night. It might be different now, but that isn't the point. The point is that Dean remembers hot, sweaty days hung on hooks attached to thin air while being skinned piece by piece. Dean recalls icy nights and sticky touches to his healed skin, big hands caressing over his body almost lovingly before tearing him apart yet again.

Even so, Crowley is aware that this isn't what Dean fears. After all, even torture becomes familiar after a few decades.

The King of Hell closes his eyes and lies back on the bed in his top-side mansion, his favourite fantasy immediately springing to mind. A small smirk plays on his vessel's body – it's more than muscle memory, because Crowley really fancies wearing this man – and he loses himself in daydreams.

It isn't until his dogs start yowling and whining that he opens his eyes again, feeling refreshed motivation after an hour-long nap.

"What are you yapping about?" he asks, beckoning his favourite doggy forth with a lone finger. "Don't worry, you little munchkin, Bobby isn't staying for much longer."

"There's something seriously wrong with you," Singer says from his place in the sofa. Crowley ignores him in favour of soothing his animals. "I got the point, Crowley, I _got_ it. Now, let me go, damn it!"

"Just a little while longer," Crowley admits. "Just long enough to make them edgy."

The dogs seem to calm down considerably at this information, their nervousity disappearing slightly upon knowing that the hunter is leaving soon. Of course, Crowley knows that it might have been a foolish move to bring Bobby with him to his favourite mansion, but persuasion and manipulation are best done in a comfortable environment.

"I've been gone for three hours, you idjit. I think they got the memo."

Crowley sighs, deep and long, forcing himself not to sic his boys on the elderly man. How could he have forgotten that Singer had such a nasty attitude? "Drop the sass," Crowley commands, and Bobby stays quiet. "You'll be my father-in-law in due time, Singer, and you'll _like_ it."

"That might be the weirdest shit someone's ever said to me."

"Well, congrats to me," Crowley replies. Patience thin as air and mood ruined, he snaps his fingers and sends the cocky human back to his car. His dogs growl in satisfaction, curling up together on the warm spot that Singer just vacated.

* * *

Dripping with sweat and shaking with fury, Sam arrives at the junkyard when the sky is already dark and the wind turns chilly. He slams the car door shut with a little extra strength, not even feeling guilty when the hinges whine in protest. His day has been so awful that he can barely feel the relief upon knowing that Bobby is home and safe.

Castiel is already there, Sam knows, but he suspects that the angel is already upstairs and entertaining Dean with old battle stories or scenes from the Bible. That happens to suit Sam fine, because he is _this close _to tearing Bobby a new one.

Wrapped in worry and anger and frustration, Sam walks inside to find the house just as it was before he left to search for the elderly hunter. The clean, lemony scent from the spray Sam used yesterday is gone, but so is the smell of dust and burnt food. The piles of books in the study are still intact, no windows are broken and Bobby seems completely whole where he sits behind his desk.

"Jesus fuck, Bobby," Sam says, and he feels all pent-up rage leave his body as he exhales. "I've been looking for you all day. Where did you go? Was it Crowley?"

Bobby doesn't look up, keeping himself busy with the thick book in his hands. "Yeah, he dropped by."

"What did he say?" Sam can't help himself – he can't feign indifference, not when his heart has decided what he believes is right. "What do you think? He has some pretty interesting theories—"

"Sam."

"—right? I agree on some points, but we gotta read the fine print extra careful—"

"_Sam_. Boy, listen." Bobby sighs and takes a big gulp of Scotch, not even bothering with a proper whiskey glass and drinking it straight out of a mug. "If he said the same things to you as he did to me..."

* * *

Castiel watches.

He watches with gentle eyes, listens to Dean's soft breathing in the otherwise silent room. He can hear Sam's excited voice coming from downstairs, but he doesn't focus enough to make out the words. He doesn't care, not now when all his attention is turned elsewhere.

Castiel watches, but he doesn't see the same things a human would.

Sam would see his older brother, a fighter and a protector, slumbering and finally at peace. He would worry, upon seeing his brother weighing less. Castiel can tell exactly how many pounds that Dean has lost, but Sam would only see a smaller man.

Bobby would see a boy, lonely and worried, a young man that has done nothing but give. Bobby would see John's soldier, would think of John's words and how they shaped this boy into the fighter and protector that Sam sees.

Castiel sees the Righteous Man, strong and selfless even when he seems down. Castiel sees a young soul. A bright soul, cracked and broken; fixed together by sheer determination and will. Castiel sees a beautiful face, a beautiful mind. Even the muscles in Dean's body seem troubled, stiff as if waiting for an attack.

There are footsteps in stairs, then a soft knock on the open bedroom door. Castiel doesn't need to look up to know that it is Sam.

"How's he doing?"

"He sleeps better now."

Sam smiles. Castiel can feel it, even though he is still looking at Dean.

"Might be 'cause you're here," Sam says, aiming for nonchalant and failing completely. The smile grows. "Could you come downstairs? Y'know, whenever you're done, uh, doing your...thing."

"Yes, of course."

Castiel tears his eyes away from his charge, getting up to follow the younger Winchester down to the study. As he takes the first step in the stairs, he hears Dean mumble something. Just a small mumble, nothing more than a word, but Castiel knows the sound better than anyone.

"You coming?"

Castiel closes his eyes for a second before heading downstairs.

* * *

**To Be Continued**


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